My son, River, has not trimmed the bushes for some time. (In case "trimmed the bushes" is some sort of euphemism or slang expression, let me clarify that I am using it in the literal sense. There are plants, leafy bushes, in our front garden. They have grown a bit out of control. Trimming them is his job. He's not done it.) His excuse is that the bushes are inhabited by wasps (not WASPS, wasps, though WASPS are also a big problem where we live). I'm no fool. I can tell when my son is lying to me to get out of work.
His mother, however, also verified the existence of the wasps. She did this with an eight-foot length of PVC pipe from the garage. She, if I've got the technical jargon correct, "whacked" the bushes with this pipe and then ran down the block screaming when the wasps swarmed out at her as if to say, "Please don't do that anymore. Thanks." That was four days ago, and we've not seen her since.
Although some men willingly throw their children to the wasps and yellow jackets, I try to be a loving and kind father. I decided, therefore, to take care of the wasps so that my son could trim the bushes. When I approached the bushes, I was cautious. I peered into the foliage and tried to see the nest. I saw nothing. So, I decided to "whack" the bushes. Luckily, there was an eight-foot length of PVC pipe in the grass near the bushes for some strange reason. I whacked one of the bushes and nothing happened. I whacked the second bush.
A few seconds later, about a block away, I found Susan. She was hiding behind a mailbox. "Are they still there?" she asked, her voice thick with fear.
"If I kill them, will you come cook something for us?" I answered. "We're starving." She agreed, so I crept back, moving in a weaving pattern and ducking from SUV to SUV. When I got back, the wasps had returned to their nest. I moved silently to the side of the bushes and, with fear and trembling, began to unroll the garden hose. I took the high-pressure nozzle from its place on the window sill and attached it to the end of the hose. I turned the water to full pressure, and I could feel the hose fill, ready to burst. I retrieved the PVC pipe, a weapon now, from where it lay on the grass and, taking aim on the wasp bush, opened the nozzle.
In my imagination I picture myself like a ninja, PVC and hose swirling as I twirled and ducked and flipped inside the arcs of water, taking out wasps by the dozens. Real ninja are probably more graceful, however. They probably don't hit themselves in the head with the pipe or trip themselves with the hose. They are also probably quieter. They would not have screamed like a tiny woman the whole time. In the end, however, the nest lay crushed on the ground (as did the bush) and the surviving wasps were scattered to the four winds.
I put away the pipe and the hose, retrieved Susan, tracked mud into my house and told River to trim the bushes, like every victorious warrior in the history of mankind.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
